


The Adventure Of The Red-Headed League (1890)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [120]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Puzzles, Quests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 01:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11197377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A little knowledge is a dangerous thing – it can get you blown to kingdom come, for starters!





	The Adventure Of The Red-Headed League (1890)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whyamidoingthisitswrongbutiloveit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyamidoingthisitswrongbutiloveit/gifts).



I glared almost resignedly at the not-yet-finished manuscript for our adventure with the Good Brothers, on which I only had to do a final grammar and spelling check on before submitting it to the “Strand” magazine. It had been irritatingly difficult to get right, and my writer's block had made me grumpy and ill-tempered at both work and home. The magazine had been pestering me for it throughout April and May; here we were a few days away from the longest day of the year, and it still wasn't done. And worse, Sherlock's lounge-lizard of a brother was due here any minute, which whilst it might mean another case, would also subject me to being in the same room as him.

I wondered if I had time to summon Lady Holmes.....

Sherlock was shaking his head at me from across the room. I scowled at him. He really had to stop with the mind-reading thing!

And the smirking thing could bloody well disappear, too!

+~+~+

Sherlock and his irritating brother talked briefly about our recent cases. Mr. Bacchus Holmes was very clearly suspicious about the case involving Huret, the French assassin who had somehow resisted all efforts to track him down having disappeared without a trace, but fortunately more pressing matters forced him to move on.

“We have a serious problem”, he scowled from the comfort of the fireside chair. It may have been 'flaming' June but it seemed that someone had forgotten to inform the flaming British weather, and it was uncommonly cold. I felt annoyed that, once again, our guest was assuming his brother's assistance as if it was some right, whereas Sherlock always politely requested his elder sibling's aid when he needed it, never demanding it. Indeed, on one or two occasions in the past it had not been forthcoming, whilst Sherlock always answered his brother's calls for help. Although after the Abbas Parva Case, his brother had been.... very marginally less obnoxious.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, shooting me another look. I blushed.

“Middleton's”, his brother said heavily.

The name was vaguely familiar from somewhere. Sherlock smiled at me.

“The information company for which Miss Charlotta Bradbury, who assisted us with the missing “Silver Blaze” locomotive, works”, he said.

He turned to his brother.

“What of them?” he demanded.

“That bastard Moriarty is trying to get old man Middleton to work exclusively for him”, our visitor lamented. “It would be a complete disaster!”

“Why?” I asked. 

Sherlock turned to me, but not before shooting his brother a warning look. Mr. Bacchus Holmes bit back on whatever sarcastic comment he had been about to utter. I totally failed to suppress a smirk, and I did not care for so failing.

“Mr. William Middleton is the greatest source of information in the city of London”, Sherlock explained. “What he does not know is, quite frankly, not worth knowing. They say that if a robin falls off a tree in Stepney, he knows about it before it hits the ground. He will sell any information to anyone for a price, unless he has reason to suspect that it will be used to physically harm or even kill someone. The last person to misuse his information in that manner was found in the Thames. Or more precisely, at the bottom of the Thames. In two pieces. Miss Bradbury is his highly-efficient if not terrifying secretary.”

“He has always kept his business strictly neutral until now”, our visitor sniffed. “But this Moriarty has divided even the criminal fraternity with his actions. Queen Molly continues to have nothing to do with him despite his efforts to repair relations with her, and several other top London criminals have rebuffed him. Some things disgust even vermin.”

“Is it because of the Red-Headed League?” Sherlock wondered.

“What on earth are they?” I asked. I was learning all sorts of new things today.

“A potential rival to Middleton's, if they ever get established”, Mr. Bacchus Holmes explained. “It claims to be descended from one of those infernal Italian family things, the Borgias and all that. Because people who are different always got picked on – still do, if it comes to that – the League was set up to defend the interests of red-heads in society. Over time it began using information as leverage, and now it has appeared in London. I wonder if that is why Mr. William Middleton might be prepared to abandon his organization's neutrality, if he perceives the League to be a threat.” 

“If Professor Moriarty gains access to the sort of information either organization possesses, it would indeed be a disaster of the first magnitude”, Sherlock said. “I am surprised that he has not moved against the League already, to try to win the Middletons over.”

“He almost certainly has”, his brother said. “The League had acquired an office in Whitechapel, but it was burnt to the ground just days after opening. There was a huge red number '1' on the floor which, fortunately if perhaps surprisingly, turned out to be red paint. And a second set of offices in Poplar met a similar end a few days later, except this time there was a big red '3' on a wall.”

Sherlock waited for me to note down that information before speaking. 

“Has anyone tried to approach Mr. William Middleton?” he asked. His brother snorted.

“You know as well as I do that no-one ever 'approaches' Mr. William Middleton”, our visitor said pointedly. “At least not before getting past the ferocious Miss Bradbury.”

“Miss Bradbury is quite possibly the second-most influential lady in the capital, after Her Majesty”, Sherlock said. “Her arrival came as something of a surprise, as Mr. Middleton had traditionally only employed secretaries for one month at a time until she arrived. Yet she has held the post for over six years now.”

“I met her once”, his brother said. “This huge fellow, six foot six at least, was coming out of a meeting with her. In tears! But when I went in, she looked totally unruffled. I shudder to think what she did to him!”

“A formidable lady, then”, I observed. 

Just how formidable, we were soon to find out.

+~+~+

Over the following week, four more attempts by the Red-Headed League to set up offices in the city went up in flames. Or more accurately, the first three went up in flames, and the fourth one ended when someone blew up the whole (mercifully empty) building! In each case a red painted number was left at the scene; a '5', an '8', a '9' and an '18'. 

Eight days after the lounge-lizard's visit, an invitation arrived at Baker Street.

“It is to attend a meeting with Miss Bradbury”, Sherlock said reading it. “I quote, 'it is also advised that a representative of Professor James Moriarty will be attending this meeting, as our organization considers its future policies. Kindly note that the bringing of weapons, of any shape or form, will _not_ be well received'.”

“So they have summoned you”, I said. “I wonder why.”

He looked at me strangely.

“There was no name on the message, so I opened it”, he said. “Miss Bradbury wishes to speak to _you!_ ”

I gulped.

+~+~+

The following day I duly went to Middleton's, an utterly nondescript building in a row of shops near the Angel, Islington. I was immediately shown up to the offices of Miss Charlotta Bradbury. They were small and rather mean for so powerful a lady, and most decidedly dwarfed by the impressive studded oak door with the name of the company owner on it on a gleaming brass plate (I privately doubted that even a charging elephant would get through that!). There were also two of those chairs that I knew from experience sank almost to the floor if one tried to sit in them - we had some at the surgery for the more 'difficult' clients - and a bookcase full of what appeared to be mostly second-hand books. Miss Bradbury gestured me towards one of the two far more sturdy chairs across the table from her, and I sat down obediently. 

About five minutes later a blond fellow was announced as 'Mr. Gadreel Evans' by a boy whom I did not even see. The newcomer was a tall blond man of about my age, and had a mean-looking pinched face. 

“I will not make the introductions lengthy”, our hostess said, “because I am sure that the two of you wish to have as little to do with each other as possible. Mr. Gadreel Evans, Doctor John Watson. Time is money, gentlemen, so let us keep this short.”

I snapped to attention.

“A decision has been taken that, with the current instability caused by the advent of a potential rival in the city, our company's stated position of complete neutrality will no longer suffice. This is what is going to happen. You are each going to take a dossier back with you to your respective masters today; I am sorry, doctor, but you must leave her precisely eight minutes and forty-three seconds after Mr. Evans, as he has further to travel. Two cabs are being held outside, one for each of you. The drivers have been fully instructed, and will only allow you to leave their vehicles at a set time after arrival, in order to allow for any traffic problems. We must have fairness, above all else.”

I nodded, noting my opponent's smirk.

“And Mr. Evans”, she said warningly, “you will both be watched every step of the way back. If you try to stop and telegraph the information ahead, _I_ shall know. And I shall _not_ be pleased!”

The smirk vanished at once. I wondered idly if Queen Molly had ever thought of a successor.....

“The dossier will present a challenge to your respective masters, the answer to which is a whole number”, the lady continued. “When you or they think to have solved it, you and/or your agents may come back here and tell me, or you may send a telegram containing your answer. The first communication, by either method, will be accepted and considered. However – and this is of great import - once I have received your answer by either method, you must then follow it up by stating your _reasoning_ within one hour, again by either method. A wrong number or a failed reasoning means a forfeit, so your opponent will automatically win. The prize will be that Middleton's will exclusively provide information to whichever side wins, and will provide none to the losing side for a period of not less than ten years.”

“That sounds fair”, Mr. Evans said. “Anything else?”

She looked at him pointedly.

“Although I should not have to say this, I will”, she said firmly. “ _Your_ employer in particular, Mr. Evans, may consider that a pre-emptive strike either immediately or in the event of a failed guess might be in his best interests. Believe me, it would so not be the case.” Her voice turned cold, and I flinched. “There is a _huge_ dossier on the activities of not just your employer, but your good self. Including, I might add, a certain incident in Tulse Hill last year concerning a certain brothel run by the late Mr. and Mrs. Peabody, which features quite prominently. I consider myself fairly broad-minded in this day and age, but I have to say that I shall never be able to look at a toilet-brush in quite the same way after reading _that!_ ”

My opponent turned bright red. Miss Bradbury pulled out a watch.

“Mr. Evans, you may leave now”, she said. “The time begins the moment that you pass that door. Please remember what I said about your driver; both of them have been instructed to contact me once they have delivered you. I shall be watching.”

The blond man grabbed one of the two huge dossiers on the table and left hurriedly. I sat back and waited for the time to elapse.

+~+~+

Once back in Baker Street, I gave Sherlock the dossier that I had taken.

“Surely we have the advantage?” I pressed. “Professor Moriarty has no-one that he can call on with your abilities?”

“Except that if we get it wrong, we forfeit and the Professor wins”, Sherlock fretted. “I must be one hundred per cent confident of our answer before supplying it to Miss Bradbury. He may feel that he might take a chance.”

The dossier contained one immediate surprise – the attacks on the Red-Headed League had not, as we had thought, been the work of our rival but of Middleton's itself, whose owner had not taken kindly to attempts to, as it was put, 'encroach on his turf'. The other contents were a school primer poster, which unrolled to reveal the alphabet and punctuation marks along the top and the numbers one to forty along the bottom, with pictures of various Greek myths along the middle, and a small envelope containing only a cigarette-card of an ironclad ship, the _“HMS Bellerophon”_.

“If the answer is a number, perhaps we may take it that the six numbers found in the Red-Headed League's buildings were the start of some sort of series”, Sherlock said. “We have 1, 3, 5, 8, 9 and 18.”

“It does not make sense”, I frowned. “The gaps are 2, 2, 3, 1 and 9. It is neither arithmetic or geometric.”

“So what else could it be?” Sherlock asked. 

We both thought on the matter for some time.

“I did think of letters in each word”, I said. “Three letters in the word 'one', five in the word 'three', but then it breaks down.”

Sherlock stared at me curiously, then grinned. He grabbed the primer and made a few quick notes on a pad before turning to me.

“Doctor”, he said urgently, “you are a genius!”

“Eh?”

Sherlock hastily scribbled something on a piece of paper, then stood up.

“We must telegraph this to Miss Bradbury immediately”, he said. “I do not wish to risk a boy being intercepted by one of my rival's agents, as I would not put it past him to try to stop us. Even if I am quite certain that Miss Bradbury would know within seconds.”

I looked at my watch.

“The local post office will be closed”, I observed.

“Miss Bradbury is doubtless aware of that fact”, he said, “as our rival lives nearly a quarter of a mile further from a post office than we do. But we both live about the same distance from a major railway station that operate much later of an evening, in our case Euston. We will stop off and send the answer from there. Or rather, I will drop you off and you will have to join me in Islington once you have sent it. It may even be that I beat the message to her offices.”

“Surely she will have gone home for the day?” I objected. Sherlock chuckled.

“Somehow I think not”, he said. “Not when the future of the business is at stake. She will expecting one or both of us to have solved the conundrum by this evening.”

I pulled my shoes and coat on, and we hurried from the room.

+~+~+

He was, of course, right. I arrived at Middleton's not long after Sherlock, and was shown up to Miss Bradbury's offices to find the two of them waiting for me.

“Well, gentlemen”, she smiled. “You are venturing your answer to our little conundrum?”

“I am”, Sherlock said confidently. “Fortunately a crown is an excellent motivational tool for the average London cab-driver, and I see that we have beaten my friend's telegram here.”

There was a knock at the door, and a small boy darted in, placed a message on the silver platter next to Miss Bradbury and stood smartly to attention. She opened it and read it.

“Only just, gentlemen”, she said. “No reply, Tom, thank you.”

The boy somehow managed to disappear without apparently leaving the room. Miss Bradbury eyed us cautiously. 

“A most interesting answer”, she said carefully.

The lady was good. There was not even the flicker of an emotion. Then she smiled knowingly.

“Your medical scribe does not understate your abilities, Mr. Holmes”, she said. “You are correct. But as you know, you have provided only half of what was asked of you. Unless you can explain your reasoning, we may consider that you made a fortunate guess.”

Sherlock looked offended.

“I never 'guess', my lady”, he said, sniffing as if she had uttered an unpleasant word. “I have had my suspicions for the past week, but your conundrum, once my friend here had provided me with the key to solving it, was the confirmation I needed.”

“Me?” I squeaked in surprise. He turned to me.

“You wondered whether the letters in each word might be the answer”, he said. “Of course that would have made the sequence 1, 3 and 5 to then go 4 _ad infinitum_ , but that, coupled with the clues that Miss Bradbury was so kind as to provide us with, showed me the correct answer.”

He turned back to the lady.

“It was an appropriate word that you chose”, he said. “The six numbers left at your rival's destroyed offices, when read against the primer that you provided, matched against the letters A, C, E, H, I and R. I deduced that we were looking for a seven-letter word, and that the number that corresponded to the missing letter would be the answer. However, that still left several possibilities, as well you knew. Off the top of my head I could supply the words cashier, archive, chaired, plus the name Charlie, which would mean the missing letter could be an 'S', a 'V', a 'D' or an 'L'. And there are almost certainly rarer words which would only expand that field further.”

“Nine in all”, she said. “I am surprised that you did not immediately think of one more.”

“I did not until I saw the picture of the warship”, Sherlock said. “I think you played us a little unfairly there, madam.”

She smiled innocently. “What makes you say that?” she asked.

“Because that word, which was the correct one, has two possible spellings”, he said. “The old eight-letter version and the newer seven-letter one, which I would fathom is not in some older dictionaries. Matters were further confused by the fact that some, but not all books follow our Anglo-Saxon ancestors and print 'ae' as a single letter, 'æ'. The ship gave me the final clue.”

“How could a ship give you a clue?” I demanded.

“The ship was _“HMS Bellerophon”_ ”, Sherlock explained. “And in Greek mythology, which judging from that overladen bookcase is a major interest of someone in this establishment, the hero Bellerophon killed a beast called the chimera, or chimæra. The missing letter was therefore an 'M', which corresponds to my answer, the number thirteen.”

She nodded.

“You have done well”, she said. “You have solved the conundrum, and Middleton's will honour its side of the deal, however much that will doubtless annoy Professor Moriarty. The owner will be apprised of your success this evening.”

I expected Sherlock to stand at that point, but he remained seated.

“I would have thought that they knew already”, he said coolly. She looked at him curiously. 

“What do you mean?” she asked. He chuckled.

“It really will not do, Miss Bradbury. Or perhaps I should call you 'Mr. William Middleton'?”

A silence hung in the air between them, before she threw back her head and laughed uproarously. I stared at her in astonishment.

“Oh, you are good!” she said. “I knew that you were trouble over that disappearing locomotive, but you are better than even the doctor's stories make you out to be. How did you know?”

“With access to one of the most powerful banks of information that the world has ever known, I realized many years back that 'Mr. William Middleton' was someone I needed either neutral or on my side”, Sherlock said. “You covered your tracks extremely well, my lady, but one or two tiny slip-ups made me suspect, and recent events only confirmed it.”

“What slip-ups?” she demanded at once.

“Mr. Middleton lived in a huge house, but kept no servants”, Sherlock said. “Perhaps not so strange for a recluse, except that the house only received a major burst of cleaning when he was 'away on holiday', a local firm being called in on each occasion. Yet when I examined the house close up – I am afraid that I did trespass on your property, madam, though of course I did not know for certain that it was legally yours – everything was in surprisingly good condition, particularly the garden. That suggested that someone was living there who maintained the house to some degree, which from my little knowledge of the fake 'Mr. Middleton' made it look as if someone else was involved.”

“Go on”, she said.

“I dug further, and found the answer”, Sherlock said. “Mr. William Middleton had been grafted onto a family of that name by the high-quality efforts of Mr. Silas Rosenstern – he did not betray your confidence, by the way, but in my line of business I have come to know his most excellent work – and William's brother Mr. John Middleton was a real person. He had one son, George, who I quickly established was of weak character and unlikely to be able to run a bath, let alone a powerful information business. Therefore you are most likely Mr. John Middleton's daughter.”

She nodded.

“Dad died five years ago”, she said with a sigh. “He always wanted me to take the business on after his death – George was, as you say, utterly useless - but he knew, as I did, that a woman running such an organization would never cut the mustard, even in this day and age. He actually set most of it up himself, you know. All I had to do was keep things going, and pretend that his brother was still alive and that I was just his secretary.”

“That was also a clue”, Sherlock said. “A man who averages one secretary a week does not as a rule suddenly decide to stay with the same one for over six years. And I expect that you enjoyed the fact that one of the possible answers to the conundrum was a short form of your own name.”

“It did not help that I was born on the wrong side of the blanket”, Miss Bradbury said. “Mum was just a factory worker, and dad had a brief affair with her before his father sent him abroad for a few years. He never knew that I existed until I rolled up eight years ago.”

She looked up, her eyes bright.

“I worked hard to get where I am today, gentlemen”, she said gruffly. “You know as well as I do how people would react if this got out. I am totally at your mercy.”

Sherlock rose to his feet. 

“It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Bradbury”, he said politely. “I look forward to further dealings with your estimable organization. Please extend our greetings to..... 'Mr. Middleton'.”

She smiled at that. We shook hands and left.

+~+~+

We were standing outside looking for a cab when a small boy hurried up, looking up at the buildings and nearly running into us as he went.

“Steady young chap!”, I said. “Why the hurry?”

“Message for Miss Bradbury, at Middleton's”, he said, sounding anxious. “The fellow who gave it me promised half a crown if I got back to him with an answer in under an hour. It's in Westminster, so I gotta run.”

“Short, thick-set gentleman with a stubbled beard?” I asked. 

He nodded, looking warily at us both. Sherlock took out a half-crown and placed it in the boy's hand. He looked at it incredulously.

“Deliver your message”, Sherlock advised, “but when you return with the answer, take my advice and stand well back. It is _not_ going to be well-received, and I doubt that you will even get a farthing!”

“Cor!” the boy said, looking at wealth the like of which he had almost certainly never seen in his life before. “Thanks, guv'nor!”

“Good luck”, Sherlock smiled as the boy trotted into Middleton's.

“He will need it!” I prophesied.

+~+~+

“There is still the Red-Headed League”, I observed later, as we were sat by the fire after a most pleasant dinner. Mrs. Harvelle's apple-pie was one of those heavenly miracles which did not occur often enough, in my humble opinion.

Sherlock chuckled.

“What is so funny?” I asked.

“John, the Red-Headed League is pure fiction”, he yawned. “It never existed.”

“But... how?” I spluttered.

“Consider the circumstances”, he said. “The resourceful Miss Bradbury had taken a dislike to the rising menace of Professor Moriarty, and wishes to abandon her firm's traditional neutrality and adhere to the side of law and order. The general criminal fraternity will not respond well, she correctly reasons. So what to do? She creates, if I may use the word, a chimera.”

“A chimera”, I said slowly.

“In the modern sense of an illusion”, Sherlock said. “A rival organization which tries repeatedly to encroach on her turf, only to be set fire to repeatedly and, finally, to have their buildings blown up beneath them. The message from 'Mr. William Middleton' is loud and clear; mess with us and we will repeatedly set fire to you, and if you still do not get the message, we shall blast you to kingdom come! Anyone looking to take them on would think twice when they stare at six sets of smoking ruins in barely a week.”

“That is brilliant!” I said.

“Indeed”, he said. “Miss Bradbury is, in her own way, as formidable as Mrs. Emmeline Strong, and definitely even more dangerous. It is good to have her on our side in the coming conflict. We shall need every ally that we can get.”

+~+~+

Next, and as if we did not have enough problems, a new enemy appears – and a face from the past brings back unwelcome memories for me personally.


End file.
